


The Enchanting Wedding of Magica De Spell

by oneiriad



Category: Disney Ducks (Comics)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 04:35:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13046598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneiriad/pseuds/oneiriad
Summary: "You are cordially invited to celebrate the wedding of Magica De Spell (witch) and Rosolio (fully trained magician) this All Hallows' Eve. You may bring a guest."





	The Enchanting Wedding of Magica De Spell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neveralarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neveralarch/gifts).



It was a beautiful Duckburg autumn day, the trees still covered in leaves that had only just turned the colour of old pennies, when the envelope arrived on the letter tray in a puff of dark purple smoke.

It was, in and of itself, a fairly innocuos looking envelope. Small and white, a neatly calligraphed ”Scrooge McDuck” calligraphed in gleaming gold on the front.

Quackmore frowned. You didn't work as a butler for Mr. McDuck for as many years as he had without learning to recognize certain tell-tale warning signs. So after a moment he sighed and went to fetch the magic resistant gloves and the tongs.

The ”Magicomatic” sputtered to life, chugging and bubbling and letting out disconcerting puffs of multicoloured smoke as the envelope was carried through the guts of it, subjected to every test the cleverly twisted mind of Gearloose had been able to contrive. After a few minutes, it spat out the envelope as well as a long strip of ticker tape, recycled from the stock ticker that Mr. McDuck had finally allowed to be replaced by a computer when the price of spare parts had grown too dear.

Quackmore studied the tape for a bit. Apparently, the envelope carried ”residual trace amounts of conjuration magic”, but nothing active, nothing that would require him to take it downstairs to the incinerator.

Instead, he put the envelope as well as the ticker tape on a tray next to a pot of hot water, a used tea bag, and a nice, clean teacup, and brought it all into his employer's office.

***

”But why do you want _me_ to go with you, Uncle Scrooge? Usually it's Donald you drag all over the world with you,” Gladstone asked again, forcing himself not to look at the desk and the invitation with its careful gold calligraphy and its ”You are cordially invited”. It's not like it was anything to him, and besides, what sort of a name was Rosolio anyway?

”Donald promised to chaperone the Junior Woodchucks Halloween Party,” Scrooge answered. ”Besides, this is Magica De Spell we're talking about. If it turns out to be some nefarious scheme of hers, I'd like your luck on my side to get home safely.”

”Do you think it's a scheme?” Gladstone asked, because that would be just like Magica, wouldn't it.

”It's not quite her usual style, but you never know. I called my detectives right after receiving the invitation, and they told me that that very same morning there had been some sort of disturbance at her house. Flashes of light and fire and Magica screaming ”What have you done?!” at the top of her lungs, that sort of thing. So I am too curious not to attend.”

”But if you're attending, won't you need to bring a wedding present?” Gladstone tried, groping for some argument to sway his uncle from this course.

”Donald is already taking care of that down in the Pit. In fact, he should be done any time now,” and – as if summoned by Scrooge's words, Donald Duck stepped into the office, his feathers covered in dust and a single coin in his hand.

”I found it,” he grumbled. ”Two layers up from where you said it would be.”

”Put it in this box, quickly,” Scrooge insisted, then closed the lid on the coin. ”Quackmore! Take this away and wrap it in used wrapping paper before I change my mind!”

”You're giving her a coin?”

”Well, she is so very fond of my petty change – so she gets a penny from my days of opal mining,” Scrooge nodding, then got distracted by more important business. ”Donald! You are not going anywhere like that! To the Duster! March!”

Donald obediently marched into the ridiculous contraption near the door to the vault and complained as the brushes freed him of the gold and silver and copper dust particles that were clinging to his feathers.

”Well, maybe I have other plans for Halloween?” Gladstone tried one last time, arms crossed in what he hoped was a firm gesture.

”Don't be ridiculous, Gladstone. You are a jobless playboy, so you don't have any work commitments, and you've got no kids to take care of, unlike Donald, and the raffle for tickets for the Mayor's Halloween Party won't let you participate anymore anyway. You'll be at Duckburg Airport in two days with your passport and a suitable set of clothes for a wedding in your suitcase, and that's final.”

And it was.

***

The sun was setting as the wedding guests were arriving.

The moon hung fat and full in the sky, shining down on the altar, placed right where three paths met and decorated with garlic garlands and quite unseasonable blossoms of wolf's bane, belladonna, dittany, and mandrake. The priestess of Hecate was standing next to it, tall and imposing in her night black dress, quietly waiting for the ceremony to begin.

Gladstone trailed after Uncle Scrooge – well, just a few moments ago he had had to drag the older duck away from the gift table, where he was tearfully saying goodbye to the old, dear friend he was giving away today, but once Uncle Scrooge had taken a few moments to compose himself after that, Gladstone had settled for trailing, while Uncle Scrooge found their seats.

Once seated, Gladstone took the opportunity to look at the other guests.

Some seemed like pretty normal people, and judging by their chatting in Italian, he supposed they must be Magica's neighbours. Others were a more familiar, if somewhat unsettling sight – Uncle Scrooge shared a few glares with some of the Beagle Boys, though there seemed to be a mutually respected truce, and just as well.

Then there were the magic folk. At least, Gladstone assumed them to be the magic folk, in all their colourful variety. A few looked vaguely familiar and those he took to be Magica's relatives, but the rest – witches and sorcerers, some in normal clothes, some in colourful robes or sparkling jewelry, many accompanied by ravens and cats and small dragons.

And then there was a tall gander in a gaudy tailcoat and a ridiculous tophat, waiting by the altar.

”That's Rosolio,” said the raven landing on Gladstone's shoulder, startling him enough that it nearly fell off before getting a good grip with its claws. ”The man of the hour.”

”I figured,” Gladstone answered through gritted teeth, trying to shrug off the bird.

”He's a terrible choice of husband,” the raven commented, then glanced sideways at his blonde curls as if considering pecking him.

”Well, presumably Ms. De Spell feels differently.”

”Oh no. My mistress thinks he's an idiot and wouldn't marry him if he was the last goose on Earth. Pity she's not getting a choice.”

”Wait, what?” and Gladstone tried to turn to face the raven – Ratbag - no, not Ratbag, Ratface - wasn't that was it was called? - except, as it was sitting on his shoulder, that didn't do anything except very nearly smashing the bird into the face of the elderly warlock in the row behind him. Said warlock glared lightning at Gladstone – quite literally, and both he and Ratface had to duck to avoid getting their feathers singed.

”What do you mean she's not getting a choice?” he hissed after having taken a moment to check that his curls were still intact.

”There's this thing about witches – they're generally far too busy witching to get around to get married,” Ratface answered. ”So witch society has a law that says, that if a witch makes it to spinster without settling down, her family are allowed to pick a suitable match for her.”

”And they picked that – that?”

”Buffoon is what my mistress usually calls him,” Ratface helpfully supplied.

”But – surely she can refuse?!”

”Shut up, the pair of you,” and Uncle Scrooge smacked Gladstone with his cane to underline his words. ”Here comes the blushing bride.”

”More like the scowling bride,” muttered the warlock behind Gladstone.

Magica was dressed in black, black pearls and silver jewelry glittering around her wrists and neck – and yes, she was indeed scowling, looking fit to commit murder most messy, in fact. She was wearing a black veil, and even so, you could clearly see the scowl.

Her groom seemed blissfully unable to notice it.

”You're going to have to do something,” the raven muttered, low so as not to draw more attention as the priestess began the ceremony.

”Me? Why do I have to do anything?”

”Because you're a gentlegoose, aren't you? Wouldn't let a lady go unsaved.”

”I'm a playboy, not a gentlegoose, and besides, she's not exactly a lady.”

”True. But you're still going to help,” Ratface stated confidently, glancing towards the ceremony, which was progressing – slowly. ”After all, you owe her your life.”

”I what?”

”I seem to remember a stupid goose falling to his death and my mistress saving you just in time.”

”That's what you're going with? I wouldn't have been falling anywhere if your mistress hadn't stolen my luck that time, you stupid feather duster.”

”Semantics. She saved your life, and you're going to repay her. Tonight. All you gotta do is stand up and object when they get to that part in a moment.”

”And if I don't?” Gladstone scowled sideways, crossing his arms.

”I'll peck your eye out.”

”I said,” Uncle Scrooge hissed, ”will the pair of you shut up before you cause a scene.”

But Gladstone wasn't listening, because by the altar the priestess was going ”Should anyone here present know of any reason that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now...”

He sprang from his seat with a yowl like a cat that had had its tail stomped on, clutching his soon-to-be-properly-black-eye, then – noticing that each and every person present was staring at him, he straightened his back, faced the bride and groom and said: ”I do. Object, I mean. I object to this sham of a marriage.”

”... and prepare for the ritual duel for the hand of the bride,” the priestess finished, looking considerably less bored than just a few moments earlier.

It took Gladstone a moment to process the words.

”Wait! What?!”

***

”I usually expect this sort of shenanigans from Donald,” Scrooge grumbled. ”I expected better from you, Gladstone.”

”Yeah. Me too,” Gladstone nodded, glancing in the direction of the altar, where all the chairs had been cleared away and the various sorcerers and witches present were busily preparing the duelling grounds, anointing it with wine and goat blood and excitedly discussing whether the measures were supposed to be in yards or meters, with a few hold-outs for something called palmipes.

From the sound of it, a magical duel at a wedding was the most exciting thing to happen for quite a few of them all year.

Speaking of magical duels...

”How is this even supposed to work?” he demanded of Ratface, which had settled on a nearby branch. ”I don't know any magic!”

”Neither does Rosolio,” the raven replied. ”He's a trained magician, but as far as proper sorcery goes, he's clueless. I'm sure you'll do just fine.”

”Or die trying, is that how it is?”

Ratface just shrugged, then took off in the direction of the small huddle of people around Magica and Rosolio. Gladstone watched as the raven landed on Magica's shoulder and leaned in close, and then she suddenly looked up and glared right at him, making him hurriedly look elsewhere.

”The unhallowed ground is prepared!” the priestess declared, stepping forth and raising her hands. ”The suitors will step forward.”

”Can't we settle this some other way?” Gladstone protested as a couple of helpful warlocks took him by his arms and dragged him along, patting him on the shoulders as they left him.

”Don't you worry, my darling Toadstool,” Rosolio was saying to Magica, rolling up his sleeves as he was walking towards his appointed spot. ”I'll take care of this Lothario in a jiffy and we can get married.”

If it wasn't a ridiculous thought, Gladstone could have sworn that he was seeing tiny hearts floating from the other gander towards the witch of his heart.

Magica just looked unimpressed, crossing her arms and glaring at – well, at both her suitors, he supposed.

”Ahem,” and Gladstone's attention was drawn back to the priestess, who was holding a tiny handkerchief in her raised hand. Black silk, if he was to guess. Odd, the things you focused on in this sort of situation. Black silk handkerchief, the raven feather stuck in his collar, Magica's glare. Really, truly odd.

”May the best sorcerer win!”

The handkerchief floated to the ground.

***

A gander was lying on the ground. It looked as if tiny birds were flying around its head, except that'd be ridiculous. Of course there wasn't really tiny birds flying around the gander's head.

Gladstone was considering that maybe the other gander had the right idea. Maybe it'd be a good idea to sit down for a bit. Take a rest. Admire the burning altar. Enjoy the nice smell of roast garlic.

”You idiot! Have you any idea what you've done?”

Gladstone blinked at Magica, who had just rushed up to him and grabbed him by the arm.

There was something about Magica, something he ought to remember. He looked back at the other gander – the tiny birds seemed to have gotten tired of flying and were now lounging all over it, reading tiny newspapers in Italian – and something occurred to him.

”I won?”

Magica seemed like she was on the verge of doing something violent, before just barely managing to restrain herself.

”Yes. Yes, you won, you fool of a gander,” and she tightened her grip on his arm and started dragging him towards the edge of the duelling ground, ”which is why we need to get you out of here before they can...”

”Declare you husband and witch!” the priestess' voice declared in triumph, and for a moment it felt like ropes tightening against his skin, around his wrists and his throat, strangling him, trapping him. But only for a moment.

Then Magica let go of him and he decided that he was going to ignore the shining golden bands around her wrists and neck, and just sit down now. Just take that rest and ignore the way she was rolling her eyes and raising her hands and shouting ”This? I am going to be stuck with this?”

***

”Legally speaking,” said I-176, who – it was generally agreed by most of the criminal element present – was the expert on all matters legal, ”I can't see any problem with the pair of them getting an immediate divorce. Or just an annulment. It's pretty obviously all one great, big misunderstanding.”

”My lawyers agree,” Uncle Scrooge, who had just gotten off the phone with said lawyers, nodded. ”An annulment, since my idiot nephew obviously had no intention of marrying anybody tonight – and absolutely no chance of his wife getting her hands on any of the family fortune.”

The last bit seemed to please him.

”It ain't going to be half as easy as all that,” the elderly witch who had been tending to Gladstone's injuries and had just handed him a mug of something green and bubbling to drink stated. ”You think a witch marriage is something you an undo with a wave of your hand and a signature on a piece of paper?”

”Meaning what exactly?” Uncle Scrooge demanded.  
'  
”Meaning that much as I'd love to get divorced from this bumbling nephew of yours,” Magica finally spoke up, ”then the magic of the wedding ceremony won't allow it. You see the wedding rings?”

”The what?”

She just pointed, first at her own wrist, where the golden band was still shining, if not quite so blindingly any more, and then at Gladstone. He looked and noticed that his own wrists were similarly encircled, then hurriedly gulped down the contents of the mug to distract himself.

”As long as those rings shine, the newlyweds have to live together,” the other witch nodded. ”Witches being so notoriously resistant to the entire marriage business, you see, there has to be something to keep them from running away at the first opportunity.”

”What happens if we don't?” Gladstone asked, having finished coughing, though a tiny green puff did escape his beak as he spoke.

”Why, bad things.”

”Meaning?”

”Remember when I took away your luck?” Magica asked.

”How could I forget?” Gladstone scowled at her, because he really didn't need to be reminded that he had all those excellent reasons not to like his new wife.

”Worse.”

”And how long do those rings stay?” Uncle Scrooge enquired.

”Oh, it varies,” the elderly witch answered, ”but I haven't heard of any that lasted longer than a year.”

”Well,” and Gladstone felt his heart sink at the look on Uncle Scrooge's face, ”well, a year is not that bad. As long as they just have to live together. I'm sure a year will go by soon enough.”

”A year is no time at all,” I-176 nodded. ”Why, one of the boys got ten once and he was out before the month was up.”

”Right, then – it's decided!” Uncle Scrooge said, before either Gladstone or Magica had time to object. ”Now all we have to do is figure out which roof they'll be doing that living under.”

”Why, we'll live in my house!” Gladstone desperately tried to grab the control back. ”It's nice and modern and has all the latest things, and it's in the best part of Duckburg. Just a stroll away from all the nice restaurants and museums and shops.”

Magica did not look impressed.

”Don't be ridiculous. I'm staying right here in Italy, in my little witch cottage. I've got my herb garden to tend and my charms to make. My research library and all my cauldrons for my experiments. Even Rosolio wasn't a big enough oaf to imagine that I'd agree to leave all that. You'll just have to go without all the wonders of Duckburg for a year, and that's that.”

”But you can't do that!” he objected, feeling a little desperate, especially since Uncle Scrooge was nodding along, though that was probably just because in all honesty Uncle Scrooge liked the idea of one of his greatest enemies living on another continent. ”I have a life!”

”And I,” said Magica with all the certain triumph of someone who has an irrefutable argument, ”have a job!”

How could his luck have abandoned him so very thoroughly?

***

Magica De Spell's cottage was exactly as tiny and primitive as Gladstone had feared.

Most of the downstairs area was a combined kitchen/workshop, with the cauldron hanging in the open fireplace and dried herbs and garlands of onions and garlic and stranger things dangling from the rafters. In a corner there was a table with a crystal ball and chairs, in another a raven's perch next to where a small staircase led up to the loft.

”I take it that's the way to the bedroom?” Gladstone asked, picking his suitcase back up.

”That's the way to my bedroom,” and Magica hurried to cut him off. ”You'll be sleeping there.”

There was a mattress next to the raven's perch that he could have sworn hadn't been there before. It looked unpleasantly lumpy and straw was sticking out of it.

”You can't be serious! I'll have to win a decade's worth of visits to a chiropractor if I'm going to be spending the next year sleeping on that thing!”

”If the mattress is not good enough for you, you can sleep on the table. I am not changing my nice cottage just because you...”

A knock on the door interrupted them before the argument could get properly rolling.

”Ah, Signor De Spell,” said the shady-looking man outside before turning and waving at the couple of men standing by the small truck behind him. ”Don Alfredo Fettuccine sends his apologies for having been unable to attend your wedding – unavoidable business matters, you understand, I'm sure. He would like you and your wife – ah, Signora De Spell! Tanta felicità! He would like you to accept this small token of his esteem as a slightly delayed wedding present!”

The sofa bed was a lovely green and it fit perfectly in the nook by the stairs. It looked comfortable – so comfortable, in fact, that Gladstone was sorely tempted to test-nap it on the spot, while Magica was still politely chatting with the delivery Mafioso.

She slammed the door just as Gladstone was about to fall asleep.

”We'll not be keeping that,” and she pulled a wand out of her sleeve, preparing to cast some spell.

”We will be keeping that,” he stated, firmly, jumping up and standing protectively in front of the sofa bed. ”Be reasonable, Magica. I get that this isn't a situation either of us wanted, but we're stuck with it. I won't try to change anything else in the house and I'll take it with me once the year has gone, but I'll need some sort of creature comforts.”

For a moment it seemed as if Magica was going to carry on with her spell – but then she sighed, lowered the wand and slumped into a chair.

”Whatever possessed you to interrupt the wedding in the first place, you fool of a gander? You'd have been well on your way back to your precious creature comforts by now if you'd just kept your beak shut.”

”Me? It was your raven that nearly pecked my eye to make me!”

”Ratface?” and she looked around, frowning. ”Where has he gotten off to anyway?”

”I think I saw him hiding out by the beehives while they carried the sofa inside. Listen, Magica, can't we just – truce? For the year, at least? We'll just – try to stay out of each other's way?” and he offered his hand.

Magica considered for a moment, then shook it. Firmly.

”Truce.”

***

”So, it isn't terrible, living with Magica?” Donald asked, while they were admiring some ancient murals of ducks bathing.

”No.” Gladstone shook his head. ”It's – we try to stay out of each other's way, I suppose. I mean, it took a little time for me to figure out how to say the spells to make water come out of the faucets or to change the channel on the crystal ball, but now? Now, it's – kinda boring.”

”Boring? But surely she's getting up to all sorts of no-good plans?” Donald asked as they wandered out of the Stabian baths. ”Like her latest scheme to get Uncle Scrooge's Number One Dime?”

”You'd think so, but mostly she reads and does things in her kitchen that makes the whole house smell funny. I asked about the dime once, but she got all offended. Apparently, it's bad manners for witches to steal from family.”

”Ah. Do me a favour and don't tell Uncle Scrooge that? I'm already planning on taking the boys here for a nice vacation in the spring, and he won't let us if he doesn't think there's anything in it for him.”

”Does Uncle Scrooge expect me to spy on my wife for him?!” Gladstone demanded. ”It might not be much of a marriage, but really!”

”You know Uncle Scrooge,” Donald soothed. ”Here, let's go look at this house. So – what do you do with yourself then, if you're not keeping an eye on Magica?”

”Not much, really,” Gladstone shrugged. ”I won a nice, little Vespa in a raffle, so some days I drive around the countryside or to Naples. I helped some of the neighbours with their Christmas decorations last week. But mostly? I... - Donald?”

”They really need to fix these stupid rock all over the place,” Donald grumbled, getting up from where he had stumbled and rubbing his backside, before aiming a kick at the offending rock in question, which was raised slightly higher than the rest of the floor.

Something creaked and abruptly a wall swung open, a wave of dust and parchment fragments tumbling down on top of Donald – and a single scroll bounced off and rolled along, coming to rest right in front of Gladstone.

”My my, what have we here?” and he bent to pick it up – only for Donald to grab the other end of it.

”Whatever it is, it's mine! I found it!”

”Well, no, dear cousin. Clearly it came right to me,” and Gladstone yanked back.

Pretty soon, the feathers were flying, and then the guards came running to pull them apart. As they did, there was an awful tearing noise, but Gladstone didn't quite have the time to figure out what it was, before the pair of them were marched straight out of Pompeii and left on the side of the road. 

That's when he noticed that he was only holding half the scroll.

***

”Did you have a nice day with your cousin?” Magica asked, looking up from her tome when he walked in the door. They had somehow fallen into being mostly polite somewhere along the way. Neither of them were entirely sure how to stop it.

”Mostly,” he replied, letting the door fall shut behind him. ”I went through Naples on the way back and won us a family sized pizza.”

He carefully pushed a few potion bottles to the side and placed his spoils of war on the table. As he turned to get himself a plate, the piece of slightly creased parchment fell out of his pocket.

Magica bent down to examine it.

”Where did you get this?”

”That? Me and Donald found that behind a hidden door in Pompeii. It's just a bunch of squiggles, though. I should have thrown it out before leaving there. Here, I'll just...”

But Magica turned away to keep the parchment from him.

”Squiggles? Gladstone, you stupid goose, this is Etruscan. Don't you realize what you've found?”

”No. No, obviously I don't.”

”If I am not mistaken, this must be from the lost library of the scholar Pliny the Elder! And if I am not mistaken...” and suddenly she was on her feet, pulling books out of her bookshelf and spreading them across the table, narrowly missing the pizza that Gladstone just barely managed to save. He carried it to the small table that had ended up in front of his sofa bed, and sat down to eat his dinner and watch Magica engrossed in her work. He thoughtfully put a couple of slices of pizza aside for her.

”I was right!” she triumphantly crowed a few hours later, waking Gladstone from his post-dinner nap. ”This describes how to find the legendary Lantern of Vulcan! An ancient artefact with the power to control volcanos supposedly lost millennia ago. It's hidden in a secret temple to Vulcan, and the scroll explains how to find it. Admittedly, it seems to be missing a bit at the end,” and she frowned briefly at Gladstone, before shrugging, ”but all the important bits seem to be here. Ratface! Wake up! We're going treasure hunting!”

”Don't you mean we are going treasure hunting tomorrow?” Gladstone enquired, nodding towards the moonlight shining through the window.

”Yes, you're right, tomorrow we'll – wait. You're not coming! I am not taking some amateur...”

”Of course I'm coming. After all – it's my scroll. I found it,” and he plucked it from her hands. ”In fact, I think I'll be sleeping with it tonight, just to keep you from getting any sneaky ideas of sneaking out without me.”

***

The next morning they spent half an hour arguing before settling on taking Magica's broomstick to the location of the hidden temple entrance. Gladstone had been far more in favour of them taking his Vespa, but in the end Magica declared that they'd already wasted enough time arguing about it, and that the only way to make it up would be to fly directly to the other side side of Vesuvius.

Gladstone grumbled about it all the way there. The broomstick was quite uncomfortable, and though the Italian winter wasn't as cold as the winter in Duckburg, the wind still found its way through all the layers of clothes he'd wrapped himself in.

As it turned out, it was actually quite fortunate that they flew. If they'd taken the Vespa, they'd have entirely missed the giant drawing of a hammer pointing straight at the hidden – well, overgrown with thorny bushes – entrance to the lost temple.

The room was small and pitch black until Magica conjured a small ball of light for them to see by. For a moment the bright light blinded Gladstone, but when he could see again, he was staring at walls entirely covered in more of the same squiggles as the scroll had been written in. There appeared to be no door of any sort, and certainly no magical lantern.

”Well. That was fun?”

”The scroll said something about three tests. Give it to me, I'm sure there is a clue to how we are supposed to proceed,” and Gladstone shrugged and pulled the scroll out from under his sweater and placed it in her outstretched hand. She spent a bit with her beak buried in it.

”Ah! All of these words on the walls are things there used to be gods for. The scroll tells us that we have to pick the most powerful one.”

”Luck?” Gladstone suggested, because in his experience, well, it was. Even if his had been a bit wonky as of late.

”Don't play dafter than you are,” she snapped at him. ”We are looking for a temple of Vulcan. Clearly, the right answer is 'fire'.” Suiting word to deed, she stood on her toes and tapped the tip of her wand to a particular set of squiggles, which immediately began to glow.

And then the glow grew hotter and the wall burst into flames, making the pair of them jump back. As they watched, the flames grew into the shape of a doorway, curving and rising, until an opening had formed, plenty big enough for them to walk through.

”Magica, wait up!” Gladstone insisted. ”I need to get rid of some of these layers! It's getting hot in here.”

”We are walking into the heart of a volcano! Of course it's getting hot – did you expect the inside of Vesuvius to be a glacier?” but she did wait while he wriggled out of his three sweaters.

***

The hallway echoed as they walked along, the light from Magica's ball falling on carvings of stylized flames and ancient ducks hard at work forging things. The hallway ended and in front of them was a massive bridge leading across a greath chasm.

It didn't look particularly safe, and when Gladstone leaned out to check, he thought he could see magma shining red and terrifying deep down.

Magica was eventually persuaded to fly them across instead of risking the bridge, and as they flew, Gladstone saw a brick come lose from one of the archs and tumble down.

Landing on the other side, they found themselves face to face with three doors. One was decorated with a great bronze dragon, one with a carefully carved wooden stallion, and the third was a gleaming fish in inlaid mother-of-pearl.

”So – what does the scroll say now?” Gladstone asked.

”It says to pick the appropriate door. I suppose we're supposed to know which one it is.”

”And?”

”The dragon,” she decided. ”It's a fire-breathing monster, after all.”

”The dragon it is, then,” Gladstone said, turned the door handle shaped like the beast's tail and stepped through.

”Uhm – Magica? I feel – kinda funny?”

”Yes. Yes, I can see that,” she said, taking a step back as he took a step back towards her.

He really did feel funny. For some reason he felt like crawling on his hands and legs, and somehow his head still ended up scraping against the top of the door opening and his shoulders against the sides. Magica kept walking backwards, matching him step by step, and yet he seemed to be covering more distance, as if his strides had gotten longer.

Then he looked down and saw claws. His eyes widened and he twisted his head – which strangely enough suddenly felt like a very easy thing to do – and looked at himself.

Then he turned back and looked at Magica.

”Magica? Have I turned into a dragon?”

”Yes, you have.”

”So – that was the wrong door, then?”

”Yes, it was. I'll just – it must be the door with the stallion, then. That's a properly majestic animal,” and conveniently the door she had backed up against. Then she turned the handle and bolted through it.

A long stretch of silence pregnant with embarassment followed.

”Magica?” Gladstone eventually called.

”Yes.”

”That wasn't the right door either, was it?”

”No,” she admitted.

”Are you going to come out soon?”

”No.”

”Magica – come out or I'll be coming in and drag you out by your tail feathers. I am not staying a dragon.”

”Oh, alright,” and out she came, the sound of her hoofbeats echoing through the cave.

”Not one word,” and she glared at Gladstone, crossing her arms and swishing the horse tail. Gladstone sniggered.

”Guess I couldn't drag you anywhere by your tail feathers even if I tried.”

Magica glared, then shook her head.

”Children. I am married to an overgrown child. Right. It stands to reason that the last door must be the right one.”

”And that will turn us into ducks again?”

”I assume so,” but she hesitated, her hand halfway to the doorhandle. ”You know, maybe we should go home. I'm sure I'll be able to find a counterspell in one of my books.”

”Magica.”

”Yes.”

”Open the door.”

”No,” and she started to back away – only to suddenly leap forward as Gladstone – somewhat to his own surprise – spat a tongue of licking flames at her, singing the horse tail.

Then he followed her through the fish door.

”Damnit, you stupid gander! If I wanted my tail feathers singed, I'd have settled for that oaf Rosolio;” Magica complained, brushing a tiny cinder away from said tail feathers before stalking down the new hallway.

Gladstone was busily inspecting himself – his glorious, feathered, beaked self – when he realized what she'd just said.

”Ratface,” he said to the raven that had settled on his (glorious, wing-free, non-scaly) shoulder. ”What did she mean by that?”

”Well, Rosolio's no sorcerer, but he _is_ from a witch family and that sort of thing manifests in strange ways. With him, he sneezes fire – and the oaf is allergic to ravens, of all un-witchy things to be allergic to.”

With that, Ratface took off, leaving Gladstone muttering ”that wasn't the part I was asking about” and running a bit to catch up.

***

Gladstone caught up with Magica in what turned out to be a huge cavern filled to the brim with anvils. Big anvils, small anvils, anvils made of lead and stone and one that he was pretty sure was carved from a solid diamond of unusual size.

She was cursing.

”Now what?”

”The scroll just says to pick the right anvil and tip it. But I've already tipped twenty different anvils and there's no reason any of them should be any more right than the rest. Vulcan is the god of smiths. They're all right.”

”Well,” he said, considering, ”I guess you'll just have to tip them all. There can't be more than – about a thousand?”

”You could help,” she glared at him.

”Nah. I think I'm going to go sit on this anvil right over here and have a nice rest,” and so he did, sitting down on an anvil of suitably sit-able size and leaning forward to rest his head in his hands. As he did, though, the anvil tipped forward and something clicked.

The floor of the cavern tipped forward – and the anvils started tumbling down.

Magica barely avoided the rain of anvils by swinging on to her broomstick. Then she dove for Gladstone, grabbing him by his collar and holding him above the tumbling anvils. Once no more anvils seemed about to tumble, she let go and Gladstone fell to the ground, spluttering and pulling at his collar, gasping for air.

”No need to thank me;” he grumbled once he had caught his breath.

Magica landed and spared him a scowl - ”Ditto” - and then they walked, side by side, down the sloping ramp and into the lost temple of Vulcan.

***

The cavern of the temple was huge. Gladstone craned his neck, but he couldn't see the top.

Inside, the floor was covered in concentric circles of what looked suspiciously like streams of lava, each crossed by tiny bridges, neat as anything. In the center was a huge statue of a duck in an apron, holding a hammer in one hand and a set of tongs in the other.

At his feet was an altar.

On the altar stood a lantern.

It shone.

Side by side, Gladstone and Magica crossed the tiny bridges and made their way to the altar.

It was a very nice lantern. It had a nice bronze handle on top, so it'd be easy to pick up, and when you looked at it, it seemed as if a little bit of the volcano's magma had gotten trapped behind the glass, bubbling slowly away. Gladstone cautiously poked it with a finger. It felt warm, but not hot enough to burn.

”Do you think we need to find something of equal weight to replace it with?” he asked Magica.

”Don't be silly,” she stated confidently and reached for the handle. ”That sort of thing only happens in movies.”

She picked up the lantern – and the earth started quaking around them.

Somewhere far, far above them, a stalagtite came lose and plummeted, like a huge, deadly spear of pointed rock, down into one of the small lava streams, splashing molten rock everywhere.

”Only happens in movies?!”

”Shut up and run!” Magica shouted to be heard over the rumbling of the volcano. ”We need to get out of here!”

And so they ran. They ran back across the tiny bridges and up the slope and out through the door with the fish, while all around them the rock groaned and dust fell. They ran across the great bridge across the bottomless chasm, and even as they ran it crumbled beneath their feet, stones falling and arches collapsing and the pair of them barely managing to leap the final distance as the bridge collapsed entirely moments before they reached the other side.

They ran through the chamber of words and out through the bushes and out into the wintry air, the lantern dangling madly from Magica's grip.

Above them, Vesuvius roared.

”We need to get back to my house!” Magica shouted. ”I might be able to find something to stop the eruption there!”

”Wait!” Gladstone shouted, but she didn't hesitate, and he barely managed to grab hold of the bristles as she took off, dangling precariously for a bit until he somehow managed to swing his legs around the broomstick handle. Admittedly, this left him flying upside down, but it was better than holding on to the bristles.

”Magica! Wasn't that lantern supposed to be used to control volcanos? Can't you?”

”I don't know how! It must have been on the parts of the scroll that wasn't there!” she shouted back, swerving to avoid the sparks flying through the air. The lantern – right in front of Gladstone's upside-down face – jangled madly.

Then he noticed something beyond the lantern and the tumbling lava inside it and shouted to get Magica's attention.

”There's no time! Look! We need to help them!”

A stream of lava was running down the side of the mountain, perfectly following the narrow road leading to the crater – and heading straight for a school bus, the nun behind the wheel apparently trying to get her vehicle in back gear without much luck.

”We'll help them best by me finding some way to stop the eruption!” Magica stated and kept flying.

”Damnit,” and Gladstone reached for the forward part of the broom, yanking it towards the bus and ignoring Magica's affronted squawk. After a moment, she yanked the broom up, and he yanked it down, and suddenly they were both tumbling through the air and the ash falling like warm, grey snow and down towards the bus.

Gladstone landed right in front of it, the lantern falling to the ground right behind him and rolling sideways before getting stuck in some thorny bushes. He did not see where Magica fell, and honestly, he was a little distracted by the flood of lava coming right at him.

 _What good did I imagine I could do like this?_ flashed through his mind.

He spared a look back at the nun and the school bus, then turned back towards the lava – and noticed something hurling through the air towards him. Instinctively, he covered his head with arms, squeezed his eyes shut and prepared for death.

It didn't come.

Eventually, it dawned on him that the roaring sound he was hearing was cheering. He cautiously peeked out between his fingers, then climbed to his feet.

In front of him, just inches from where he'd been bracing, lay the diamond anvil from the hidden temple. On the opposite side of it the lava was still flowing, though seemingly more sluggish now, more oozing than running – but where it reached the anvil, it split in two, diverting into two narrower streams away from the road.

***

Gladstone was brushing ash off his feathers when Magica appeared, broomstick in hand and hair utterly in disarray.

”If you ever do something like that again, I am dropping you in the volcano,” she growled, then stalked towards where the lantern of Vulcan had come to rest, safely cradled in a bush.

Above them, Vesuvius had gone quiet as abruptly as she had woken to life.

Magica reached out for the lantern and that's when Gladstone realized that: ”Magica! Don't shake it!”

She paused and looked back at him, and he hurried to her side.

”Don't you see? That's how it works! The earthquake started when you picked it up and the eruption just kept getting worse the more we shook it, and now look. It's lying there, nice and still, and the volcano's stopped.”

Magica frowned, then cautiously bent and tapped a nail against the lantern. The volcano rumbled and a puff of ash rose from its top.

”You're right!”

”No need to sound so surprised,” Gladstone grumbled.

”Well, we can't just leave it lying here. Even if nobody picks it up, sooner or later a goat is going to try munching on that bush and the lantern will go tumbling down the mountainside.”

”Maybe if we wrap it in something?” Gladstone suggested. ”We can go to that village we passed this morning on the other side of the mountain? See if they'll sell us something useful?”

But when they got to the village it was covered in a field of dully glowing lava. It had stopped running and settled down to the business of hardening, and only a single church steeple poked up out of it.

”Nooooooooo!”

”What are you two yelling about?” a voice behind them asked. They whirled and found a man frowning at them. Behind him, a small cluster of cars and a single minibus were parked at the side of the road.

”The people!” and Gladstone pointed at the lava.

”Oh! No need to worry, friend,” the man smiled. ”We were all just coming home from our annual holiday shopping trip to Naples. Even Grandma Gatto's cat had come along for the ride. We're all quite safe, but thank you for worrying about us.”

”But still. Your homes!”

”Oh, don't worry. We've all got volcano insurance. We'll have some nice new houses soon enough. In fact, this is a stroke of luck!”

”What do you mean?” Magica asked.

”Why, Signora De Spell, because we've been talking in the village about how to get some of all the archaeology-crazed tourists that visit Pompeii and Herculaneum to stop by our village. And look! Now we have an entire village buried in lava for them to excavate! It's going to be bigger than Colosseum, you mark my words! Oh, but first – it's very lucky that you just happened along, Signora De Spell. We'll need that lava to cool off properly. You wouldn't happen to have some charm for that?”

”I think I might,” she said, frowning and taking in the lava. ”I think I might have something that'll work. I've got a bag of winds at home, nearly spent, but the Boreas knot is still tied. That should do the trick nicely. Of course,” and she smiled winningly at the man. ”That sort of thing doesn't come cheap.”

”Name your price!”

”Wool,” Gladstone interrupted. ”Lots and lots of wool. We've got something very fragile to transport, you see.”

Magica glared at him for that, but really – even he felt that it would have been a bit much to demand money from the people whose village they'd just buried in lava.

Besides, perhaps it was his imagination, or did her glare lack the usual heat – or maybe that was because the golden band around her neck seemed to have vanished...

***

It was a lovely spring day and Gladstone and Donald were lounging on the nice, new terrace that had been recently added to Magica's little house, while the boys were playing some sort of tag game with Ratface.

”But seriously, Gladstone? Selling your house? Where are you planning to live when you go back home?” Donald was asking.

”Oh, I imagine it'll be alright. I'm sure I can find someplace to stay when going back for vacations and visits, but I'm actually thinking of settling here.”

”Here? I thought the marriage was supposed to be for just a year?”

”Yes, well. I'm getting settled, I suppose. Really, I am not as young as I was, you know. There comes a day for any gander to find his roost. Besides, Magica's found a flying rug at the warlock's market, and I've been learning to fly it, so I can go all sorts of places. I just spent the weekend strolling through Venice, and I won this nice mask at a raffle, and thought, that mask, that will be a perfect present for when my Cousin Donald comes to visit.”

The mask lay on the table between them, a long, prominent beak in the middle of it.

Donald looked like he was wondering if he'd just been subtly insulted.

”But what am I supposed to tell Uncle Scrooge?” he eventually demanded.

”Tell him – oh, tell him that I am nobly sacrificing myself to keep his lucky dime safe from the wicked witch. That should please him.”

”Hrmph. If you stay married to her, she'll get it anyway.”

”What do you mean?”

”It's in the old duck's will. When he leaves us, you get the coin.”

”You've seen his will?”

”A few times. He keeps writing me in and out of it, you know. But the coin always stays listed as going to you.”

”Well – well, I guess that's quite convenient, isn't it? You might even call it a stroke of good luck?”

Gladstone picked up his glas of lemonade and raised it for a toast, which Donald joined after a moment's hesitation.

”Now, you and the boys are staying for the night, yes? The sofa bed should easily fit the lot of you, and Magica has promised to cook for us?”

”Her Spaghetti Fra' Diavolo?” Huey, Dewey and Louie asked, abruptly abandoning their games in favour of surrounding Gladstone, looking hopeful.

”When did any of you ever have any of Magica's Spaghetti Fra' Diavolo?” he asked, frowning at the hopeful faces.

”A few years ago, Magica and Uncle Scrooge did a deal involving her getting one of his less lucky coins. It didn't work out, but me and the boys got to spend the night here back then,” Donald answered, while pouring glasses of lemonade for the boys. ”You've made a few changes to the place.”

”Well, a gander needs his creature comforts.”

”Mmmm. Well, I do have some very nice memories of that visit myself. There was this hammock, you see...”

”A hammock?” Gladstone frowned, because there had definitely been no hammock when he arrived. And yet, strangely enough, after dinner, a hammock appeared in the downstairs area next to the raven's perch, and Donald was snoring away in it even before Gladstone had finished shepherding the boys into the comfortable sofa bed.

”Good night, Uncle Gladstone!” they chorused.

”Good night, boys!”

He cast a final glance at their innocent, little faces in the light from the carefully secured lava lamp, then turned with a yawn to walk up the stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> For those unfamiliar with Rosolio, he appears in a few of the comics - mostly Italian ones, I think. He is in love with Magica and, with the support of some of her more annoying relatives, considers himself her betrothed. Magica disagrees and tries to do her level best to stay away from the lot of them, to the point where she's arranged for them to be unable to leave the witch town they live in except very rarely.


End file.
